


Be All My Sins Remembered

by DizzyDrea



Series: A Study in Magic [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That was the pattern, then. The Death Eaters would try to find an in at the Ministry, to weaken it from within, while sowing fear and mistrust among the population. And every time they thought they'd beaten the threat, something happened to remind them that the threat still lingered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be All My Sins Remembered

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't intended to write a sequel to [The World's Only Consulting Auror](http://archiveofourown.org/works/901391), but a friend asked why Sherlock hadn't gone to Hogwarts like John (and presumably every other British wizard) did. That got Muse to thinking, and this is what she came up with. The title comes from Hamlet (Act III, Scene 1), the famous _To be or not to be_ soliloquy. With that line—Be all my sins remembered—Hamlet is attempting to warn Ophelia to not make the sames mistakes he's made; in effect, he's exhorting her to learn from his past sins.
> 
> Please note that Sherlock and Mycroft express opinions regarding Dumbledore that might not be popular. The issues they discuss result from many lengthy conversations I've had with a dear friend of mine who has issues with JKR and some of her plot points. They are in no way meant to disparage the books or JKR; they are used here to make a point about the magical world portrayed here and the fact that not everyone will agree with every decision made by those in charge. If that bothers you at all, please don't feel like you have to read this. I won't be offended if you don't. 
> 
> Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Hartswood Films, the BBC, Masterpiece, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and a lot of other people who aren't me. Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, and a lot of other people who aren't me. I'm doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

John shuffled down the stairs and into the main part of the flat, scratching absentmindedly at his sleep-mussed hair. He'd spent the best part of the previous day chasing after Sherlock—not at all unusual for them, but exhausting just the same. They'd stayed out late, chasing leads that never quite panned out, so it was already mid-morning and John was feeling the need for some tea. Eggs might be good, too, if Sherlock hadn't contaminated them with some potion or experiment he felt certain he'd rather not know about.

He immediately headed for the kettle, filling it on autopilot and flicking the switch as he fetched two mugs out of habit. Movement in the living room caught his attention, so he leaned out to see if Sherlock had stayed up all night rather than head for bed as he'd instructed on their return.

Instead, he was greeted by the entirely unwelcome—but not entirely unexpected—sight of Mycroft Holmes, sitting in Sherlock's preferred chair, twirling a familiar wand between his fingers.

"Bloody hell, Mycroft!" John hissed. "Don't you ever knock?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to let me in when I rang."

John had the good grace to look chagrined. He darted a glance at Sherlock's bedroom door, but it was still firmly shut. That didn't mean the other man was asleep. He could just as easily be ruminating, or meditating, or whatever the hell it was he did when he wasn't sleeping.

John turned back to Mycroft, heaving a sigh. "Tea?"

"That would be lovely, John," Mycroft said, the barest hint of a smile tilting his lips.

John turned back to his task, pulling out two bags and dropping them in the mugs before pouring the water to steep. He could feel Mycroft's amused stare as he completed the rather mundane task. Sherlock had commented—more than once, loudly and with rather strident language—that he failed to understand why John didn't just use magic to prepare the tea. John had shrugged, each and every time, in lieu of an answer.

Truth was, John Watson had grown up a Muggle. He'd learned how to prepare tea from his mother, and for all that he'd gained when his magical abilities had surfaced at the age of ten, he'd never forgotten where he'd come from. He liked the ritual of making tea, as much as the beverage itself, a fact he knew Sherlock would never understand. It kept him in touch with his roots, his family, and grounded him in the world in a way that magic could never hope to.

Sentimental, Sherlock would call it. Well, if John was sentimental then so be it. He wouldn't apologize, and he wouldn't change.

Tea finally steeped to his satisfaction, he retrieved the bags, giving them one last squeeze to make the brew as rich as possible before discarding them and splashing in some milk and a dollop of sugar (more for Mycroft than for himself). Task completed, he took the mugs to the living room and handed one to Mycroft; the other he sipped at slowly as he settled into his chair to await Mycroft's explanation for the early (relatively speaking) visit. Not that he couldn't guess, but it never paid to have a Holmes deride your deductive reasoning skills first thing in the morning.

"So," John said when enough time had passed and it seemed that Mycroft wasn't going to begin that explanation.

Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow.

John sighed. He wasn't going to ask, no matter how uncomfortable the situation made him. Mycroft could do silent well, but John was in no mood today.

"Heard something interesting yesterday," he said instead, choosing to allow Mycroft his secrets. "Anderson mentioned that Sherlock had gone to Durmstrang. I guess I hadn't realized that he hadn't gone to Hogwarts. I suppose I thought we'd just missed each other, what with the age difference."

"Really, John, Hogwarts is hardly the only magical institution in the world," Mycroft said. "There are other, worthy schools for the training of wizards."

John cocked his head, a hum of acquiescence slipping past his lips. "True. I guess what surprised me more was that Anderson, of all people, would know when I hadn't."

"Mr. Anderson's family is an old one," Mycroft said. "Among the many who helped found Hogwarts, if memory serves. It doesn't surprise me that he would be disdainful of any other magical academy."

"Is it true?" John asked. "Is Anderson a squib?"

Mycroft's lips ticked up in a barely there smile. "Mr. Anderson is that rare individual who—despite coming from a pure blood family—has shown little to no magical ability."

"Ah," John said, the light finally going on. "Old Blood. Founding family at Hogwarts. It's no wonder he and Sherlock don't get along."

"He and Sherlock don't 'get along', as you so eloquently put it," Mycroft said, something of a sneer in his tone, "because Mr. Anderson insists on flaunting his position and family connections, despite his utter lack of magical ability, and despite the fact that the Holmes family is, in fact, older than his particular branch of the Anderson family."

John chuckled. It would seem there was no love lost at all between the Andersons and the Holmes', pure blood or no.

"So, why didn't Sherlock go to Hogwarts, then?"

"Our father… differed with the Headmaster on a number of topics," Mycroft said.

John parsed through the carefully chosen words. "They didn't like each other much, did they? Your father and Dumbledore?"

"They served together on the Wizengamot for many years," Mycroft said. "There were… disagreements, shall we say."

"Oh, stop pussy-footing around, Mycroft."

Both men turned to the kitchen to see Sherlock whip his wand to fill his own mug with tea. Once finished, he settled on the sofa, blue robe billowing around him, and sipped his brew.

"Father always believed Dumbledore to be a bit power-mad and controlling," Sherlock went on as he stared out the window, just as if he'd been in on the conversation from the beginning. "Always pushing for his preferred solution, manipulating events to suit his own agenda. And being a half-blood, he never had a true appreciation of the magical traditions we base our lives on."

John turned to Mycroft, who was frowning mightily at his brother.

"That's it?" John asked, a bit incredulous. "That's why they disliked each other? A difference in philosophy?"

"As usual, John, you're missing the point," Sherlock huffed.

"Father believed that Dumbledore's methods undermined the magical community," Mycroft said. "We are not, strictly speaking, a democracy, but we do work together for our protection and benefit. When one member of our community takes it upon himself to act for the benefit of all, without a proper explanation of what those methods might entail, it can cause more harm than good."

"That Potter boy is but one example," Sherlock said, focusing now on John. "Leaving him with non-magical relatives. Relatives who—it must be mentioned—abused him mightily. If Potter was supposed to be our best hope of defeating Voldemort, why in the world did Dumbledore leave him so unprotected and vulnerable?"

"I thought there was a spell of some sort—some sort of 'old magic' thing that kept him safe," John said. "At least, that's what the Daily Quill suggested."

"'Old magic'," Sherlock scoffed.

"The spell that Dumbledore assumed would protect the Potter boy is indeed 'old magic', as you say," Mycroft said, darting a disapproving look at his brother. Sherlock huffed again, crossing his arms and glaring into his mug, as if deciding whether it was worth the effort to refill. "However, as anyone of long standing in the magical world would know, it's also easily defeated."

"The blood," John said, recalling with sudden clarity the events of the Triwizard Tournament. Much of what had happened had been hushed up by the Ministry, but enough information had leaked out, especially in the wake of the defeat of Voldemort, for John to be able to guess what had happened. "Voldemort used Potter's own blood to reanimate himself, thus making the spell's protection moot."

Mycroft smiled approvingly at John. "And yet, Dumbledore, knowing this to be true, returned Potter to his aunt and uncle."

"Without any protection," John said incredulously. "It wouldn't have taken much for Voldemort to find out where he lived and kill him in his bed. Bloody hell!"

"Precisely," Mycroft said. He glanced at Sherlock, who remained silent, though he was once again listening to the conversation. "This was not the first incidence of—for lack of a better term—foolhardiness on his part. Although, I suppose one can hardly blame the man. He was a half-blood. His magical education, while broad, was quite likely woefully incomplete. There is, after all, only so much an institution such as Hogwarts can teach in seven years. There are bound to be gaps."

"So, that's why your family sent you to Durmstrang?" John asked. "Because of Dumbledore?"

"In part," Mycroft said, inclining his head as if to acknowledge the validity of John's point. "There were… other considerations as well."

"The Dark Arts."

"Yes, John," Sherlock chimed in at long last. "The Dark Arts. Everyone fears them so. But how can we conquer that fear if we do not learn everything there is to know about the Dark Arts? How can we hope to defend ourselves against their power if we run in fear of even speaking their names?"

John thought about that. He'd noticed almost from the moment he'd joined the magical community that there were certain things no one ever spoke aloud, as if even the mention of the word could invoke some sort of curse. Voldemort's name was chief among those things. He'd never had a fear of speaking the man's name, mostly because he'd never grown up fearing the man himself. And he was just a man, no matter what anyone else said. Fearing the power of his name was foolish. Fearing the man only slightly less so.

"I suppose an institution like Hogwarts fears that, by teaching its students how to cast dark spells, those spells will one day be turned on the very people who've taught them," John said.

"Which is why Durmstrang not only teaches how to cast the spells and mix the potions, but also how to counteract them," Mycroft said quietly. "It would be irresponsible not to, but no one ever remembers that. They only hear the first part, and make assumptions that turn into lies, which in turn breads fear. And so…"

And so.

John watched Mycroft pick up the wand he'd been holding when John had first entered the flat, idly turning it in his fingers once more.

"Did you ever find out who that belongs to?" John asked.

He thought perhaps he should probably know, since Sherlock had held on to it all day as they'd chased after leads on the killer's identity, but if Sherlock knew, he hadn't shared that information with John.

"His name was Arlen Buttlesworth," Mycroft said, shooting a glare at Sherlock. "He was a low-level functionary in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office."

"Sounds like a lovely fellow," John remarked. An image of the man in death flitted through his mind, that of a well-dressed man with laugh lines around his eyes and soft, pale skin. Buttlesworth was the least likely person he could think of to be threatening anyone. And yet, he'd ended up dead in a dingy alley, far from anywhere familiar. "Did he have any enemies?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Everyone at the Ministry spoke highly of him. He was quiet, did his job. His department head—Arthur Weasley—said he'd never had any complaints. Strange that he would end up dead in an alley, don't you think?"

John had a feeling that Mycroft's question wasn't really directed at him. A fact that was confirmed when Sherlock shifted uneasily on the couch. Both men sat silently waiting, watching as Sherlock set his mug on the coffee table and stood to stare out the window.

"His parents are both Muggles," Sherlock said. "His mother never leaves the family home. She's mad, you see. Driven to madness by a curse she could neither understand nor defend."

"Cruciatus, mostly likely," Mycroft said, nodding. "We've seen it before."

"You mean the Longbottoms," John said. He'd worked only a few shifts in the long term care ward at St. Mungo's, but he'd seen them and heard the stories. It was dreadful, and if that's what had happened to Buttlesworth's mother, she was likely to be in no fit state to be at home. "She should be at St. Mungo's. They'll know—"

"Yes, she should be," Sherlock interrupted. "But she's not, because Buttlesworth never reported her condition. He's ashamed; ashamed that the very thing he is has brought this upon his family."

"And whoever killed Buttlesworth was trying to blackmail him using this knowledge," John said, putting the pieces together at last. "What do they want from him?"

"We shall have to find the killer in order to learn that, I'm afraid," Sherlock said. He turned around and faced the two men.

"'Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it'," Mycroft said quietly. 

John nodded absently. That was the pattern, then. The Death Eaters would try to find an in at the Ministry, to weaken it from within, while sowing fear and mistrust among the population. And every time they thought they'd beaten the threat, something happened to remind them that the threat still lingered. Would they ever win?

Mycroft stood up, tucked the wand into his suit coat, then picked up the umbrella leaning against the side of the chair. "I suppose that we should be grateful that the Death Eaters are so predictable. I'll look into anyone Mr. Buttlesworth has had contact with recently. Do let me know if you find anything of interest."

And with that, he sauntered out of the flat. John watched him go, having the distinct impression that none of what they'd just discussed had been a mystery to Mycroft. It was a rare Holmes brother that couldn't deduce the truth from a few vague clues, although he thought that perhaps Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective (and Auror) could probably deduce circles around Mycroft.

It made him glad that Mycroft was on their side, though precisely what he did at the Ministry was a great mystery to John.

He glanced over at Sherlock, still standing by the window, staring out at the bustling activity going on outside. They were blissfully unaware, the Muggles, that there was danger of an even more sinister bent lurking in the dark corners they themselves shied away from. It was probably for the best, because if they knew what lay just beyond their sight, they'd probably go mad.

There were days when John himself wished he didn't know—didn't remember—as much as he did. Days when the cold press of memory from the War hounded him and it was all he could do to breathe through it. But, he'd never been one to run away from danger, and he wasn't about to start now.

"So, what do we do now?" he asked into the silence.

Sherlock turned, eyes alight with that singular fire that told John he was truly engaged and ready for whatever came next. "Now, we follow the clues. The game, John, is afoot."

He clapped his hands together with relish, then strode from the room in a swirl of blue dressing gown and glowing eyes.

John groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He had no idea what fresh hell they'd go through today, but as always, he'd be right beside Sherlock.

It was the only place he could be.

~Finis


End file.
